


Hey Mama

by noctyx (nicrt)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Mother's Day, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Mother-Son Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 18:29:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10904988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicrt/pseuds/noctyx
Summary: They all had their own ways to connect with their mothers.





	Hey Mama

**Author's Note:**

> Hey Mama: Aulea | Asteria | Sylva

_**Hey Mama** \- Aulea _

He imagined her hands to be soft. There’d be ridges on her skin, callous and rough, from all the training and work she put them through. Her palms were probably around the same size and span as his’ was, though her fingers looked more delicate and longer than his. They wouldn’t be smooth, like how some girls he knew back in high school kept their hands. But they’d be soft, he was sure.

Apparently, she had been proficient with the _naginata_ in her youth, just as she was a master at painting. Put her weapon in her right hand and she’d cut through a hundred daemons and soldiers with grace. His father told stories of the few training sessions she’d join in with Clarus and himself; the times when she weaved around the larger swords and landed more hits than either of them. Put her brush in her left hand and she’d bring the images on her canvas to life. His father showed him the works she made and put up around the citadel, how they brought colour to the black walls of their home.

He imagined her hands to be soft, with the way one sat atop of the other in her lap. There were pictures of her that hung in the many hallways of the Citadel. Each one depicted her with long, straight and lush black hair, shining blue eyes the shade of sylleblossoms, facial features with beautiful and soft angles, expression neutral as she stared straight ahead. Seated upon the bed in his father’s chambers, on the chair of his father’s study, on the bench in the private gardens, and even once on the throne. Her hands were folded in her lap in all of them.

The one he often went up to – to sit and stare and wonder – was the one in his father’s study. An oil painting, in the dark colours that Insomnians favoured so much. In this one, she smiles – almost mischievously, oh so lovingly – cheeks lifted high, eyes alight with happiness, lips pursed together as each side tip upwards. She looks like she’s laughing. A hand curled in front of her chin as if assessing something with amusement. His father probably, in whatever scenario he was in during his time in the study. Her other hand brandishes a ring – soft silver with blue gems – seated on the ring finger. His father told him she painted this herself.

He imagined her hands to be soft. Soft, but with the talents of a swordsman and artist. Soft, but with the regalness of a queen. Soft, and with the love of a caring wife. Soft, and with a heart that had plenty of room for her son.

Noctis smiled at that thought. He would have loved to meet her. She sounded a lot like himself, from what little stories his father told him about her.

He closed the door to his father’s study, a bouquet of carnations – whites, pinks and reds – in hand. Noctis walked over to the chair he used to occupy whenever his father was in this room – just to be near him and watch him work – and sat down without care or grace in manners. He smiled up at his mother’s portrait, still with the same glint in her eye. He held the flowers out for her to see.

Noctis imagined soft hands reaching for his, grasping them instead of the bouquet. He imagined the feeling of rough skin touching his own. He imagined her greeting him with a radiant smile for her son, thanking him for his lovely gift. He imagined her leaning down, kissing his crown, affectionate like how she was. And he imagined loving her with all his heart, the same way he does for his dad.

Tonight, he did so – loved her with all the stories he’s heard about her and with all the memories of observing her paintings.

He smiled up at his mother’s portrait and greeted her warmly.

“Hey, mom.”

**Author's Note:**

> Commentary: This was rushed (probably butchered) because I only had the idea last night and couldn’t execute it because _nap why_ \- ,-;; inspired by mother’s day today (or yesterday, late by 45 mins) and JHope’s song “Mama”. It was supposed to be 500 words for each mum, but *shrugs* they deserve way more than just 500 words anyways.
> 
> Also, I know Mother’s Day isn’t always for everyone? But I just thought of writing something to commemorate the mothers we could have seen more of.


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